If I paid $250 for a Broadway ticket to find out I was sitting on a grain sack with a hole in it, I would have words for the usher.
“This is a visceral Hello, Dolly! A Dolly you can feel. A Dolly you can smell. And what is that smell, you ask?” Ethan Fox tapped the side of his nose. “That’s stew. Bubbling away. A literal melting pot, blending the flavors from the European immigrants pouring into an already teeming city.”
Was this stew a metaphor? Or was he talking actual stew?
“And at intermission, the audience will be able to really eat the stew, ladled into tin bowls by members of the cast.” Real stew it was. Okay, then. “They’ll be able to taste the gristle, contending with the marrow of the American experience.”
Ooh, girl. If I wanted to taste the gristle, I’d just eat more of Joaquin’s meat castoffs from work.
“And as for you?” Ethan continued. “The cast? You’ll be stripped down to your raw essence, performing in deconstructed nineteenth-century undergarments.” Okay, that I could get behind. I’d look cute in a corset. “The choreography will be dangerous and sensual. The crowd scenes will be violent and brutal. That parade passing by? It’s a bloodbath, a riot caused by the pushing and shoving of the crowd, innocent bystanders trampled underfoot. Anyone could get stabbed at any moment.”
Was Ethan Fox going to stab us?! The stew was real. How did we know the knives wouldn’t be???
“And today, I hope you’ll all feel the stab of inspiration.” The room exploded into more laughter than that joke deserved. The thirstiness was at an all-time high here. “Although this Hello, Dolly! shall be built upon the scaffold of my vision, as those of you who have worked with me before know, I foster an environment of collaboration. These characters and this production will be your creations as well.” Now, that sounded more appealing. Maybe all I needed to do was show these fools that I was the Barnaby they were really looking for, not some dude bro dancer type. I mean, I wouldn’t have to sit on a grain sack. I could ladle some stew if the man needed me to ladle some stew. For an Equity card? I’d ladle all the stew he wanted. “So we’ll begin the collaboration today, in callbacks. We’ll be rotating through dancing, singing, and reading sides, and you’ll all be participating or observing throughout the process. Use your fellow actors. They are your greatest resource.”
Oh snap. I’d auditioned for a show like this once before, when my high school drama teacher had been feeling extra-creative or something. We’d all had to sit around in a circle and watch as, one by one, each person did a Shakespeare monologue. Which meant you never really got to relax, because you had to have your best “I’m invested and listening” face on the whole time. Ugh.
The monitor from the last round of callbacks stepped up with her clipboard, reading our names off a list and splitting us up into groups. Now, this was definitely by character. I stood in a group of fit guys with dancer bodies, ages eighteen to thirty-five. We must have been all the Barnabys and Corneliuses. The choreographer—instantly recognizable because he was the only person at the table in dance pants, plus I recognized him from the first dance call—led us down the hall to a dance studio.
I watched carefully as the choreographer broke down the combo. It reminded me of the Newsies routine we’d done at BDC—definitely wasn’t the Gower Champion dance from the original Broadway production of Hello, Dolly! or the Michael Kidd one from the Barbra Streisand movie. I’d watched some of both on YouTube just in case. Luckily, all these kicks and jumps were exactly my jam. After the first run, the choreographer moved me to the front row. But I didn’t even need that validation to know I was slaying it.
With each run through the combo, my doubts about the show faded away. Maybe it was being surrounded by so many other people who wanted it, but I found myself wanting this gig, too. Desperately. I lost myself in the dance, in the music, forgetting about all that crap they’d said at my first callback and focusing only on keeping my turns tight and my arms crisp. I was dancing like putting on my Sunday clothes was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I was living for these Sunday clothes.
After one last run, we waited around awkwardly while a few more casting people, including Ethan Fox, came in to deliberate with the choreographer. After a couple minutes, they read out a list of people who could go home. The guy next to me burst into tears. But they didn’t read my name. Trying to be respectful of the crying guy’s emotional process, I held myself back from fist-pumping. Barely.
“Lopez, right?” The choreographer called me over before we left for the next room. I was half panicking that he’d decided to cut me, too, and half giddy that maybe he’d decided to cast me on the spot. “You’re the one who dances with Jason, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, I take his classes.”
“I can tell. Good stuff out there.”
Lucky green audition shorts, you’d done it again! He hadn’t talked to anyone else. As I hustled out of the room, following the rest of the Barnabys and Corneliuses, I knew as long as everything else went well, the part was mine.
That Equity card was so close I could taste it.
Up next, in a room with a piano, we sang “Put On Your Sunday Clothes.” My extreme hype about the Sunday clothes continued. We sang alone, and in pairs of Barnabys and Corneliuses, to make sure we could nail the harmony. While I was singing, Ethan Fox came into the room to listen, and smiled at me.
This part was mine. It was so mine, and these other Barnabys would have to rip it out of my cold, dead, gorgeous hands if they wanted it.
Finally, we walked down the hall to the last room, to read sides. This may have been what tripped me up last time, but this would be different. I knew it. I’d been Barnaby for hours. At this point, I was Barnaby. I wanted to see that whale just like he did. I wanted to go to New York. I wanted to see the world outside of Yonkers. I’d even deliberate on the influx of immigrants in the late nineteenth century, if Ethan Fox wanted me to!
Listen. Just because I didn’t sweat beef and beer didn’t mean I wasn’t masculine. I was masculine in my own way, and the fact that I had the full, gorgeous lips of a young Sophia Loren didn’t change that. And he wanted tough? I knew all about tough. You didn’t wear blue mascara to an eighth-grade dance if you weren’t tough. I’d just be tough like me. Grounded. Strong because I was soft. If Ethan Fox meant what he said about collaborating, he’d see what I could bring to the table, and realize it was exactly what he needed. Maybe he’d listened, really listened, to what I’d said at callbacks, and was ready to see me work with fresh eyes.
I shook hands with my scene partner, smiled, and began reading, ready to make my dreams come true.
@PepperSmith
Reassuring to know that in an increasingly corporate New York, there are still some places that thrum with authenticity.
@PepperSmith
@TinysJazzClub is a true New York icon; old school in the best possible way
@PepperSmith
What is jazz, anyway, if not the ideal soundtrack for our modern age?
@PepperSmith
Life *is* improvisation
@PepperSmith
In music and in life, one must break the rules in order to truly *create*
@PepperSmith
Jazz legend @MylesMcCoyJazz is playing THE @TinysJazzClub in an unscheduled tour stop tonight; very old school *real* music
@TinysJazzClub
Can we put you on the list, @PepperSmith? We’d love to have you in the house at the show tonight!
@PepperSmith
@TinysJazzClub Don’t be thirsty, darling; I’ll be there if I can be there.
MY FABULOUS NEW YORK ADVENTURE began in an underground garage called Big Apple Parking on West Eleventh Street. Decidedly not so fabulous. But once Pauly handed over the keys to the van to a valet who miraculously backed it into a teeny space between two other cars, Dad, Pauly, and I climbed up the stairs and emerged onto a street lined with redbrick buildings boasting tall windows, colorful doors, and wrought-iron fire
escapes. It looked like a movie set. I had thought, when I finally made it to New York, I’d be disappointed, like it could never compare to what I’d dreamed.
But this was even better.
“Welcome to the West Village, Josie.” Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go check in at Tiny’s, then you can go explore a little.”
“Seriously?” I was so shocked; Dad’s sudden burst of let’s-give-Josie-her-freedom had stopped me in my tracks. I had to jog a bit to catch up with Dad and Pauly.
“Seriously. But no heading uptown to see the skyscrapers or Empire State Building or Fifth Avenue—”
“What about the Apollo? Minton’s?” My heart sank, thinking about all the legendary music venues in Harlem I’d hoped to see.
“No way. You don’t have time to go up to Harlem. But I love where your head’s at.” Dad grinned. “You’re definitely my kid.”
This was new. Usually I felt like Dad was pointing out all the ways we were different. Like his commitment to jazz versus the pop music I loved that he held in disdain. Or his professionalism versus what he saw as my lack of focus. It felt nice to be acknowledged like this, to know that he saw music as the thread that bound us together. Because whatever other issues I had with Dad, I never doubted for a moment that the man lived and breathed for his music.
“It’ll be good to get back to Tiny’s. Too bad Boone couldn’t join us in New York and get a real feel for the Myles McCoy show before he joins the tour,” Dad said.
Boone would be meeting us in Virginia Beach once we left New York, and then continuing on with the Myles McCoy show as we traveled farther south. I was still completely shocked that it was happening.
“He saw us in Toledo,” I pointed out.
“Everybody sounds better at Tiny’s, Josie.” Pauly winked. “You’ll see.”
“That kid can sing,” Dad admitted, clearly still thinking about Boone. “At the end of the day, all that really matters is talent. And he’s got it.”
I agreed. I mean, country music wasn’t my thing, either, but the truth was undeniable: Boone Wyant had a voice. Even thinking about hearing him sing in Pittsburgh sent shivers up my spine.
“Do you think it’ll help fill some of those empty seats?” I asked Pauly in an undertone as Dad checked something on his phone.
“Adding Boone? Oh yeah. It made financial sense,” Pauly said. “We’ve been having some trouble filling venues on the later tour dates. Diversifying the genre of music in the show, especially with someone who’s pretty well-known regionally, made sense.”
If Dad’s jazz shows were suddenly overrun with Boone Wyant superfans in denim cutoffs, I would die laughing.
We passed a pizza joint, a bar called Molly’s Crisis—huh, weird name for a bar—a comedy club, and then, there it was. A small black awning with a trumpet on it proclaimed that we’d arrived at Tiny’s. Dad pushed the black door set in the redbrick building, opening up to a set of stairs leading down to the basement.
For such an icon of jazz, it was, indeed, tiny. The ceiling was low, and the space was broken up by support beams. The stage was at the back of the club against a wall of exposed brick that had been painted black. It was really only a platform that had barely been raised a couple inches, not even a stage.
But I loved it immediately. It wasn’t as glamorously decorated as Veronica had done up La Bonne Nuit, but being back in a basement dedicated to music felt like coming home. The quiet darkness of the stage enveloped me like a hug.
“Myles McCoy!” An older Black woman with a shaved head appeared behind the bar, her tassel earrings swinging as she set a crate of clean glasses down. “It is so good to see your ugly mug back at Tiny’s.” She crossed over to Dad and enveloped him in a hug. “When are you going to move to the city, huh? Can I get you off the road?”
“Not yet, Shirley.” Dad hugged her back. “I’ve still got a few good miles left in me.”
“Hmm. I doubt the plebes in Peoria appreciate you the way I do. Good to see ya, Pauly.” She moved onto Pauly and gave him a hug, too, clapping him on the back. “You taking good care of our boy?”
“The best,” he replied.
“And this must be Josie.” She stood in front of me. “I’m Shirley, this is my jazz club, and you’re gorgeous. Well, Josie, if you sing like you look, you’ll be a star in no time, sweetheart.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. I like a girl with ambition.” She smiled at me. “And with great taste in earrings.”
“Why, thank you.” I touched my favorite pair of hoops, happy I’d pushed my hair back with a slim silver headband to show them off a bit. The slight pressure from the headband made me feel almost like I was wearing my old Pussycat ears. With my ears on, I’d always felt invincible.
Or maybe that was just because I’d had Val and Melody at my side.
I know the fact that I exerted a lot of creative control caused tension with the Pussycats, but I was missing those days. Touring with Dad, I had literally zero control. Over anything.
“You want to open for your dad tonight?” Shirley asked. “As a solo act?”
Huh? Seriously?! Dad had never asked me to open for him. In fact, before we’d even left Riverdale, he had been pretty clear that it would never happen. He was the star. I was support staff. And if I even so much as hinted that I was daring to do anything remotely diva-ish, like, oh, you know, sing a song that I had chosen, I could find some other jazz musician to tour with.
Which seemed like a pretty unlikely prospect.
“Who? Me?” I stuttered, dying to know what was playing across my dad’s face but afraid to look.
“I’m not asking Pauly.”
“Hey, easy, Shirl, I’ve been working on my juggling.” I had no idea whether or not Pauly was joking or not. “I’m almost ready to hit the big time.”
“You haven’t even heard me sing.” Dad hadn’t shut the idea down. I was practically cringing, waiting for him to nix the whole thing, but he hadn’t yet.
“Then let’s hear you sing.”
Shirley walked over to the stage and took a seat at the black upright piano pushed against one wall. I followed her, stepping onto the stage and adjusting the microphone down to the right height. Even without the stage lights on, and with the bar flooded by daytime fluorescents, there was still magic in stepping in front of a microphone. Pauly had taken a seat at a table in the front row, smiling expectantly. Dad remained standing, his face inscrutable.
“Do you know ‘Remember Me’?” I asked. If I wanted to be the next Diana Ross, I might as well be the next Diana Ross. “By Diana Ross?”
“Do I know it.” She chuckled. “Honey, I’ve lived it.”
The opening notes played. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Bye baby,” I crooned into the microphone. “See you around.”
The bar was utterly silent except for me and Shirley at the piano. I blocked out the fact that Dad was listening and just sang the song I loved. When I finished, the bar remained silent.
“Well, Myles, looks like you’ve got yourself an opener,” Shirley said eventually. “That was really something, Josie,” she added, with feeling.
“Looks like I do.” Dad wasn’t smiling, exactly, but I thought the corners of his mouth turned up a little. “Five songs. And please don’t sing anything that will make people leave.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I rolled my eyes. “Love the vote of confidence.”
“Write your set list down for me, baby,” Shirley instructed. “There’s pen and paper behind the bar. We’ll have the house band back you up. Don’t worry about going too obscure, either. They know everything.”
Wow. My very own solo show, in New York City! Sure, it was only five songs, and I was opening for Dad, but still! Five songs that I could choose! I was so excited to be able to sing exactly what I wanted to.
And before that, I had an afternoon free. In a place that was a lot more interesting than a Comfort Motel. Leaving Dad, Pauly,
and Shirley at Tiny’s, set list complete behind the bar, I practically skipped up the stairs and onto the sidewalk.
I grabbed a slice of pizza that only cost ninety-nine cents and was absolutely delicious. I ate it on the sidewalk, watching the taxis careen down the street. I probably could have been doing something more exciting with my one day in New York, but all I really wanted to do was wander. I strolled the aisles at a record store, browsed the racks at a few small boutiques, and ate an extremely pastel cupcake, sitting on the stoop of a brownstone that probably cost more than most of the housing stock in Riverdale combined. But maybe this was the magic of New York. I wasn’t doing anything, but just by being here, surrounded by the people and the energy, I felt like I was doing something.
I felt like I was someone.
I made it back to Tiny’s just before call time. Touching up my makeup in the minuscule dressing room, I could hear the jazz club filling up, little snippets of laughter and conversation floating back to me. Shirley herself came backstage to let me know it was five minutes to places.
I waited backstage, peeping out from behind the curtain at the packed house. Shirley walked out to introduce me, and I walked confidently onstage, soaking up the applause.
“Hello, New York City!” I said, adjusting the microphone.
And the cheers that answered me sounded like coming home.
THIS TIME, I DIDN’T HAVE a buddy to ride up the elevator with. I was on my own.
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